my segments are raving
rushing in multiplicities
to-wards, up-wards, in-wards,
imploding calmly
'nsynch with a hidden agenda.
fermenting.
bubling, foaming, dripping
though not liquid at all
my raw limbs are
stretched in ectasy
in a body colder than mine.
wrapped in mild flesh,
washed in mellow plasma.
let me get drown in what remains
from your five litres of ocean.
hello dear stranger,
let me exercise in you
how it feels to come home.
(whatever... Pluto's Cave or Parasites' Rave)
